


No Love

by LadySlytherin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Child Abuse, M/M, Prostitution, Rating: NC17, Rentboy!Harry, Slash, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-16 14:39:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySlytherin/pseuds/LadySlytherin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when everything you've ever believed is a lie? When everyone you've ever relied on doesn't exist? Where do you go when your reality shatters and there's no one who cares? Harry does the best he can to put the things he can never have out of his mind; there's no point in wanting things that aren't real, after all.</p><p>When the life he's been convinced was a delusion collides with the life he's made for himself in the real world, Harry must try to unite who he once thought he was with who he has had to become in order to survive. But can the two ever really be reconciled? Only time will tell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Courtney Rutherford](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Courtney+Rutherford).



> Oh Salazar; I just love complicating things! Okay, the premise really isn't that bad, but it's a little hard to follow. Basically, I changed a single moment in Canon and it had a ripple-effect. Ginny never tried to toss the diary.
> 
> If Ginny never tried to get of Tom's diary, then Harry wouldn't have found out that Hagrid was blamed. If he doesn't know that, then he and Ron wouldn't go into the forest and meet Aragog after Hermione got petrified because they would have had no reason to go to Hagrid's that night. If they don't meet Aragog, they don't know the dead girl died in a bathroom and don't realize it's Myrtle. Which means they don't find the Chamber when Ginny is taken. Ginny dies, the school closes, Tom comes back, etc. You can see how it spirals.
> 
> This story runs in a world where Ginny never tried to toss the diary and the aforementioned cause-and-effect scenarios played out. Please keep that in mind as you read! <3
> 
> Happy reading; I adore feedback.
> 
> ~ Lady S.

Harry James Potter, age 15 and a couple of weeks, was insane. Clinically, apparently. He suffered from delusions. Very detailed delusions, actually. And memory-lapses. Though, to be perfectly fair to himself, Harry often reminded himself that the time he couldn’t remember was filled up by his delusions, so it made sense he didn’t remember what was actually happening. In fact, he didn’t even have delusions anymore. At least, not actively. He still firmly believed that his “delusions” were real, though. Which was why he was still considered insane.  
  
Harry didn’t believe himself insane. He also didn’t believe he’d spent from his 11th birthday to his 13th birthday at St. Brutus’s School for Criminally Insane Boys. No, he had spent the school year of both of those years at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And he had spent the summers right where he currently was, at Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. But when he had awoken on his 13th birthday, all of his things from school were missing.  
  
His trunk – always locked away during the summer in the cupboard under the stairs that had been his bedroom until he was 11 – was gone. His wand, his books, his robes, his money, the key to his vault, his broomstick…all of it was gone. His owl – his beautiful, gorgeous snowy owl – was also missing. Harry had begged and cried and pleaded with his family to give her back. To tell him she wasn’t harmed. To tell him what they’d done with her. To tell him _anything_.  
  
They’d told him that he was insane instead. His aunt and uncle and jeering, sneering cousin had informed him that there was no Hogwarts, there was no magic, there was no wand or trunk or books, and there was no Hedwig. Nor had there ever been. He, Harry, had been away at St. Brutus’s for treatment and they’d finally sent him home because he was beyond help. He was quite mad and always would be. These _delusions_ he persisted on were proof of that fact.  
  
“Tell me, boy.” Uncle Vernon had sneered at him from the doorway of his bedroom, where he lay curled up on the bed, sobbing and nearly incoherent. “If this school of yours was real and these people you claim exist really did, why isn’t anybody here to take you away? Why hasn’t anybody _saved_ you?”  
  
And Harry had had no answer for that. He’d curled tighter around himself, his body aching from the beating Vernon had delivered with a switch cut from the tree in the backyard. He told himself over and over again that he was a Wizard. That he was a Gryffindor student at Hogwarts. That his best friends’ names were Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. That the reason he wasn’t at school was because Albus Dumbledore, the esteemed Headmaster, had had to close the school down due to students being attacked and petrified. Hermione had been petrified, in fact.  
  
And Ron’s baby sister, Ginny Weasley, had been taken into the Chamber of Secrets. No one had been able to find it. No one had been able to save her. The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had fled the school and Harry had been too afraid to tell any of the adults about the disembodied voice he’d been hearing all year. And with Hermione – the brains of the Gryffindor Trio – petrified, he and Ron hadn’t known where else to turn. Hagrid had been carted off to Azkaban the night Hermione had been petrified – which Ron and Harry had spent by her bedside in the hospital wing, wishing they knew what to do – and shortly afterwards Ginny had been taken.  
  
It had been terrifying and horrible. The school had closed and Ron’s whole family had been devastated by the loss of their youngest child and only daughter. Harry assumed Ron and his family hadn’t come to check on him because they were too wrapped up in their own pain to care about his. That seemed like a logical explanation, anyway. Hermione’s family was Muggles…non-magical people. So they certainly wouldn’t come to him with news.  
  
But Harry was trapped on Privet Drive now and had been for two years. He didn’t go to school; he was _dangerously_ _insane_ , after all, and couldn’t be around _normal_ people. So he stayed in the littlest bedroom in the house and was fed once a week – thin broth, tepid water, and stale bread – through a small cat-flap in the door. The door, which locked from the outside with half a dozen locks. There were bars on his window. He remembered the summer he’d turned 12 when Ron and his twin brothers, Fred and George, had brought a flying car (a turquoise Ford Anglia) and used it to rip the bars out and rescue him. Uncle Vernon had beaten him until he was unconscious the one time he’d mentioned that.  
  
Harry had learned quickly not to mention his _delusions_ to his family. He was beaten anyway, at least twice a week, but it was much worse if he talked about magic or wands or his friends. So instead he laid still on the bed and reminded himself of the sound of Hermione’s voice when she told them to study more. Or the way Ron’s face lit up whenever there were sweets. He remembered being Sorted into Gryffindor and his first night in the red-and-gold four-poster bed in Gryffindor Tower. He remembered Hagrid and the little boats they’d crossed the lake in before their first year.  
  
Harry spun his memories around himself like a protective web; a magical, glittering shield to keep him safe from the world he’d somehow ended up in. He stared out the window and watched _normal_ people go about their lives and remembered giant chess sets and the Golden Snitch and Dobby the house elf, wondering who the elf had belonged to and how he was doing. He held his body still and silent while Uncle Vernon’s company car pulled into the driveway and thought about Charms class and dueling a sneering Draco Malfoy and Hermione Polyjuicing herself as a cat. He curled protectively around his own head while the blows rained down on his body, screaming himself hoarse, and slipped into memories of Skelegro and Severus Snape and Diagon Alley.  
  
And now…now, it had been just over two years since he’d been told for the first time that none of it was real. And Harry couldn’t stand it another day. It was like a perpetual nightmare. He had to leave; there was nothing for him on Privet Drive. He couldn’t stay in this house anymore. He couldn’t keep being told he was insane or he really would be insane. He was going to lose his mind in this place; he could feel it. So when Vernon’s car pulled into the driveway, Harry got himself ready. He pressed up against the wall next to the door, on the side where it opened. And he waited.  
  
Within minutes, the heavy footsteps of his uncle sounded on the stairs. The locks began to click and slide open and Harry tensed his body, determined to do this. He knew that if he failed he would never get a second chance. The door opened and Vernon stepped in, not seeing his skeletally-thin nephew pressed against the wall. He frowned, his eyes scanning the tiny bedroom, looking for the boy he’d intended to use to vent his anger with life.  
  
“Where are you, boy?” Vernon demanded loudly, taking two steps further into the room. And Harry took a trembling breath, knowing he had to do it now or never. “Come out here, boy! I asked where you are!”  
  
“I’m right here!” Harry snarled, shoving his uncle hard in the center of his back and unbalancing the large man. Vernon stumbled towards the bed, falling onto it, and Harry rushed into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him and quickly throwing the locks. “And now I’m leaving this fucked up place!” He told his uncle loudly through the door. “I’m leaving and I’m going back to _my_ world, where I belong! You fucking Muggles can all go hang for all I care!”  
  
And as Vernon raged and threw himself against the door repeatedly in an attempt to get out, Harry tore down the stairs. Petunia and Dudley had just come out of the kitchen to investigate the ruckus – which didn’t sound at all like a typical beating – and froze at the sight of Harry at the bottom of the stairs. He hesitated for a moment, then strode right over to the front door and yanked it open. He glared at his relatives, who cowered back into the kitchen in fright.  
  
Pulling his lips back in an eerie, wet-sounding snarl, Harry spat. “If I wasn’t so sure you’d destroyed them, I’d be ransacking this place for my school things. But fuck it. I’ll buy a new wand and robes and such. And fuck you all for keeping me in this hellish place for so long. I’m going home.”  
  
“Harry!” Petunia’s voice was trembling and miserable. Harry froze, halfway through the doorway, desperate to get outside and away from this place, but also wanting to know what she might say. “Harry, just…” Harry turned halfway back around and she bit her lip, then threw her money purse at him. “Just take it and go.”  
  
Harry caught it with the reflexes he knew had made him the youngest Seeker in a century and clenched his fingers tightly around it. “Goodbye.” He said softly, slipping out the door and into the evening. He hoped he never laid eyes on this miserable place, ever again.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS A GRAPHIC SEXUAL SITUATION BETWEEN A 15 YEAR OLD BOY AND A GROWN MAN!!! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!**
> 
>  
> 
> Comments thrill me beyond words, so feel free to leave me some. Happy reading!
> 
> ~ Lady S.

Harry Potter had never been so unhappy in his life which, considering how he’d lived for the last two years, was really saying something. It had been three weeks since he’d left the Dursleys’ miserable little house on Privet Drive and the small amount of money Petunia had given him was long-gone. It hadn’t lasted for much longer than it had taken Harry to bribe someone to take him to London and get a single meal. He’d tried desperately to get back to _his_ world; the Wizarding World. He’d spent two days walking desperately up and down Charing Cross Road, but the Leaky Cauldron was nowhere to be seen.

 

He’d tried watching crowds of people for anyone who looked remotely like a witch or wizard, but there were no purple top hats or cloaks to be found. There was nothing left for him; not anywhere, it seemed. He didn’t understand. He _knew_ where the Leaky Cauldron was…so why couldn’t he get to it? He’d futilely tried getting onto Platform 9 ¾ as well, but that hadn’t worked out any better than his search for the Leaky Cauldron. Harry was out of money, out of luck, and he was running out of time.

 

He hadn’t been strong when he’d left Privet Drive; he was even weaker now. His too-large black tee-shirt hung on his skeletal frame and his jeans were held up with a frayed piece of rope. His trainers were falling apart and he’d nicked some duct tape from a store to put them back together. He’d almost been caught, too. He was too afraid to try stealing anything else, even food. So instead he scrounged through dumpsters and trash cans. Some small part of him had started off ashamed – and quite vocal – in the back of his mind. But hunger and fear and despair had worn that proud part of himself down to nearly-nothing; there was no room for shame in his life. Only survival mattered now.

 

Harry wondered idly what he looked like to the people passing by the mouth of the little alley in Camden that he was huddled up in. He was waiting for the dim evening to fade into full-dark so he could wander out from his hiding place in search of something – _anything_ – to eat. He imagined he looked like any other vagrant; dirty and pathetic and beneath their notice. He would have been surprised by their thoughts, if he could hear them.

 

Harry, even in the state he was in just then, was beautiful. His hollowed-out cheeks and gaunt face made his vibrant green eyes look huge, even behind the thick lenses of his glasses. His face was streaked with dirt and his clothes were grimy and rumpled, but the skin underneath was smooth and supple. In the too-large clothing, rather than looking malnourished (which he was), he simply looked delicate and waifish; a true Ganymede. His dark, slightly-too-long, oily hair was a startling contrast to his incredibly pale skin, which hadn’t seen proper sunlight in two years. Even these past few weeks had seen Harry hugging the shadows. But Harry had no idea how beautiful he was.

 

So when a man stepped into the alley and loomed over Harry, the teenager had no idea what the man could possibly want. He smelled of whiskey – a sour, unpleasant smell – and his clothes and hair were rumpled. “You look hungry.” The man rasped in a voice that spoke of exposure to strong liquor and cigar smoke for many years.

 

“I…” Harry blinked up at the man; he had salt-and-pepper hair and a slightly-receding hairline and was probably in his fifties. Decided lying wouldn’t get him anywhere, Harry swallowed down the last little bit of his pride and nodded. “Yes.”

 

The man held out a 50-pound note and Harry reached for it, but it was snatched quickly away. “I’ll give you this.” The man rasped at him, waving the money a little. “But you need to do something for me in return.”

 

Harry’s mouth filled with saliva at the thought of the food that money would buy. He could eat something hot and fresh…something that tasted _good_. He swallowed loudly, then bit his lip. “What do you want?” He whispered, feeling inexplicably nervous. He somehow knew, despite never having been in this situation before, that the man was going to ask for something Harry didn’t want to give.

 

The man reached down and touched Harry’s greasy hair and Harry cringed away, pressing back against the brick wall of the building behind him. “Suck me off.” The man whispered, his muddy brown eyes glassy from alcohol and lust and showing just a hint of shame over what he was asking. “Come on, pretty boy…suck me and I’ll give you this…”

 

Harry wanted to say no. He wanted to scream and cry and run away. But his eyes were locked on the money the man was holding; money he _needed_. His stomach twisted in on itself as he imagined buying piping-hot fish and chips from a street vendor. He licked his lips at the thought and the man groaned, one hand dropping to the front of his trousers. Harry squeezed his eyes shut; the man in front of him was old enough to be his grandfather. Despite his rumpled, semi-drunken state, his suit was nice…he was probably a banker or a solicitor with a plump, smiling wife and children and possible grandchildren. It wasn’t _right_ to do this.

 

In a barely-there whisper, Harry managed to say three words, none of which were in any way a refusal to do what was being asked of him. “I’m only fifteen…”

 

His eyes flew open when he heard another groan. The man was unbuttoning and unzipping his trousers and pulling out his prick. Harry squeezed his eyes shut again quickly, but the image had been burned into his retinas. It was short and fat and dark red, with a nearly-purple head peeking out of the foreskin. He felt a hand touch his hair, then whimpered miserably as he felt the wet, blunt head of the man’s erection press against his lips. He could smell the man’s arousal; musty and sharp, it turned Harry’s stomach and made the boy grateful not to have eaten that day.

 

“Come on, pretty boy…” The man murmured; his hand in Harry’s hair and the prick against his mouth were both urging him to do something he’d never imagined doing before. “Open that mouth for me…”

 

And deliberately thinking about nothing but the money the man had offered him and the food it would buy, keeping his eyes tightly closed, Harry parted his lips. The weight of the older man’s cock settled on his tongue. The taste was salty – like sweat – and sour, like the whiskey the man smelled of. Harry squeezed his eyes closed tighter against the tears he knew wanted to fall. The concrete was cool and filthy under his knees and the pungent odor of the man he was sucking off choked him. The grasping, greedy fingers in his hair made his skin crawl and the harsh, uneven thrusts across his tongue made him want to vomit.

 

“Come on, baby…suck…” The man growled, giving Harry’s hair a sharp tug even as his harsh voice scraped over Harry’s nerves like glass; Harry didn’t know how much of this he could take.

 

Harry sobbed softly, the sound muffled by the flesh filling his mouth, and obediently hollowed his cheeks around the man’s length. Tears leaked out from under his eyelids, clinging to his lashes and sparkling in the faint light from the streetlight that filtered into the alley. He felt hands on his face, tugging his glasses off. He didn’t protest; he just dragging his tongue clumsily over the head of the prick in his mouth and struggled not to gag at the foul taste. He clenched his hands into fists, resting them on his own denim-clad thighs, and sucked harder. He just wanted this to be over.

 

The man groaned and thrust harder, then demanded hoarsely. “Open those eyes, pretty boy. I want to see them…”

 

And Harry blinked open eyes so green they looked unreal. They were shining with tears, the lashes framing them dark and sooty and damp. They were also unfocused because his glasses were gone and the man fucking the teen’s perfect cherry-red mouth had the sudden, unnerving feeling that the boy was looking _through_ him. That this dirty little waif on his knees in an alley – who had the face of an angel and sucked cock like he’d been born to do it – could see right through to his soul. And as disturbing as that thought was – to have all his sins laid bare before this angelic child – it wasn’t enough to stop the orgasm ripping through him at the sight of those wide, innocent green eyes set above that sinfully-sweet mouth that was sucking him so well.

 

As the man’s release flooded his mouth, Harry reached the limits of what his poor, shattered mind could take. He jerked out of the man’s grip, ignoring the sharp pain of yanking his hair away from tightly-clenched fingers. Sobbing, tears streaming down his face, Harry spit out the man’s bitter, sour-tasting seed and began to dry-heave. Bile coated his throat, hot and acidic and nearly-sweet, then burned the taste of the strange man’s arousal off his tongue as it filled his mouth. He spit again, coughing, his throat hot and aching from the inside-out. His shoulders shook and his arms trembled as he curled his legs to the side and held himself up with straight arms and palms pressed flat to the pavement. His head hung down, chin touching his chest, and he breathed in sharp pants through his mouth. What had he just done?

 

He felt a hand on his shoulder and recoiled instinctively, pressing his back to a dumpster and turning fearful eyes on the man who now consisted of his only sexual experience with _anyone._ “Here.” The man careful set Harry’s glasses back on his face, then grasped one of Harry’s hands and pressed the 50-pound note into it. “As promised.”

 

The man had tucked himself back into his trousers, Harry noticed dimly. He curled his fingers tightly around the money and his mouth formed words. “Thank you.” It came out in a flat, dead voice and his eyes were haunted and vacant as they gazed up at the man.

 

The man cringed away, standing and backing up hastily. “Just…buy yourself some food and…and maybe call your folks. Get yourself home.” It seemed guilt was consuming him as he looked down at Harry’s broken, nearly-lifeless form, huddled by a dumpster in a filthy alley, a shiny smear of semen across one cheek, tears drying into silvery-trails on that beautiful face.

 

Harry clenched his fingers tighter around the money and whispered. “No folks. No home. Nowhere to go but here.” He curled his body around itself, ignoring the sound of the man’s hastily retreating footsteps in favor of the pain gnawing at his soul.

 

And though he now had the money he had been so desperate for, Harry did not leave the alley to go and get food. He did not eat at all that night; his stomach and throat felt too raw for that. Instead, he curled himself up as small as he could and thought about his life. He thought about his uncle beating him and the tiny bedroom and the insistence that he was insane. He thought about pawing through garbage for scraps to eat and feeling so dirty that his scalp itched and his skin crawled. He thought about the taste and feel and smell of the man who had paid him for a sexual favor and what he could do with the small amount of money he’d earned doing it.

 

And sitting there in that darkened alley, remembering the weight of a stranger’s cock in his mouth, Harry finally accepted that his family had been right. He truly was insane.

 

There was no Hogwarts and he was not a Gryffindor. There were no wands or school books or teachers and he could not cast spells or brew potions. Owls did not carry letters and he had certainly never owned one, snowy-white or otherwise. Brooms were for sweeping floors, not flying, and there were no small golden balls called Snitches to chase or bludgers to avoid. Ron and Hermione were not his friends because they did not exist. His parents had died in a car crash because there was no evil Dark Lord by the name of Voldemort who wanted everyone who opposed him dead. He, Harry, was not _“The-Boy-Who-Lived”_ and he was not famous. His mother had not died to protect him. No one had, because no one loved him that much. In fact, no one loved him at all.

 

And no one was going to save him, because he wasn’t worth saving.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Harry brought his cigarette up to his lips and took a deep drag. The smoke curled into his lungs, soothing his raw nerves and calming his jittery stomach. He’d been doing this practically every night for nearly a year and a half and it didn’t get any easier. Most nights he wanted to just curl up in a ball and die, but that wasn’t really an option. He had too strong of a will to live. He figured that was the only reason he kept coming out, night after night, rather than just slitting his wrists or letting himself starve to death. Either that, or he really was as crazy as his family had always said. Which he suspected was quite possible, though he did his best to ignore the delusions that had once gotten him through each day. These days it was nicotine and alcohol and pretending he just didn’t give a fuck that did that.

 

It was bitingly cold out, since it was December 3rd. Camden – despite its often-brightly-painted buildings, daytime tourists, and open-air market – was not a pretty place. It was dirty and gritty and housed the dregs of society. The gently falling snow that blanketed everything (still white, since it had not yet been turned to blackened-sludge by cars and people’s feet) softened the grimy surroundings into something almost surreal. Harry took a final drag on his cigarette and flicked the butt into the street, then blew out a stream of smoke.

 

He was tired and cold and about ready to call it quits; there weren’t many pedestrians out and those who were seemed in a hurry to get to wherever they were going. Which meant none of them were interested in Harry. And as much as he needed the money, he wasn’t going to make much of anything if he ended up with pneumonia. Better to lose a single night’s earnings than several weeks, with medical bills on top of it all. _That_ , he couldn’t afford.

 

He leaned against one side of the alley’s mouth and stared broodingly out at the street. He often wondered how it had come to this. After that fateful night in an alley much like the one behind him, where a perverted old man had paid him for a quick suck, Harry had dropped his last name and continued selling himself. After all, what else was a homeless teenage boy with no ID or paperwork supposed to do in order to feed himself? It wasn’t as though he could get a job. And once he’d gotten a few decent meals in him and put on some clothes that fit, he’d cleaned up pretty well.

 

He was still small for his age – and he suspected he always would be; years of abuse and neglect tended to do that to a body – but his vibrant eyes, dark hair, and pale skin combined with his petite, lithe build made him look waifish and innocent. He’d been called _fey_ and _angelic_ and _child-like_ more times than he cared to count. It tended to attract a certain type of client as well; older men and those who wanted to cause pain to someone so pure-looking. Harry was okay with that; they paid well and he healed quick. Not to mention he was used to pain, so it didn’t bother him much anymore.

 

He’d done things to change his image as well; to enhance his looks as much as possible. His once-pure-black tousled mop of hair was no more. Now, a single longer chunk of hair fell over part of his forehead and half-hid one eye while the rest of his hair was cut shorter and spiked messily upwards. It was also two-toned. Most of it was a deep, dark green that was nearly-black in dim lighting but it was liberally laced with streaks of bleached-out white. His bellybutton, his tongue, the center of his lip, and the end his left eyebrow were all pierced. His left ear was also pierced, a total of 9 times, from the lobe straight up and around the top curve of the cartilage, with a series of identical, silver hoops that hugged his ear closely. He’d traded in his glasses for contacts as soon as he could afford to do so. And a single tattoo rested in the curve of his right hip; a tangle of black thorns surrounding a single, emerald-green rose with silver leaves. The colors of his hair and tattoo were chosen for two reasons. One, they flattered his coloring, which mattered a great deal in his profession. And two, they were the antithesis of everything his delusions had once convinced him he was; the colors of the non-existent Slytherin House. Considering where he’d ended up – and what he was willing to sink to doing in order to get by – he thought it fitting.

 

Harry tapped another cigarette out of his pack and brought it to his lips. He’d just flicked his lighter into life – bringing the flame near the tip of the cancer-causing bad habit he just couldn’t seem to shake – when he saw him. The cigarette (still unlit) and his lighter went instantly back into his pocket. There was something about this man – a five-time repeat visitor, though he’d never purchased Harry’s services– that made Harry’s stomach tighten with fear. Harry knew him from somewhere; the problem was, he couldn’t know the man from the place he thought he knew him from because that place wasn’t _real_. And Harry wasn’t foolish enough to ask the man. He didn’t even know the man’s name. Or rather, he didn’t have a name for him beyond the one his delusions had supplied and since his delusions weren’t real, the man’s name couldn’t possibly be Lucius Malfoy.

 

But he knew the white-blonde hair and the piercing grey eyes and the aristocratic features; the cold, drawling voice of the man who he only ever addressed as “sir”. So he knew he had seen him somewhere, once upon a time, before the delusions took hold…and then he’d spun him into the fantasy world that he refused to give any credence to. And the man had been oddly taken with him, right from the first time he’d seen him a month earlier, and he purred Harry’s name in a way that made him feel sick. It wasn’t a pleasant sort of obsession and Harry had been strangely grateful when the man had stopped coming to see him a week earlier. It wasn’t as though the man had hurt him, since he’d never propositioned Harry, but his aura of dark, dangerous power drove others away. So he wasn’t pleased to see the man again; he’d hoped the-man-who-couldn’t-be-Lucius-Malfoy had found another obsession somewhere else, though he couldn’t say he was overly surprised he’d been fixated on.

 

Some of Harry’s older clients, for instance, had a sort of fondness for him. They came back again and again and brought him little trinkets (like flowers or cologne or very-occasionally jewelry) and touched him sweetly. Because Harry was young and beautiful and very hard not to grow fond of, if you were the sort of person who had a heart. And sometimes, when he was very tired and weary and feeling particularly weak, Harry would imagine that one of these kind older men would one day take him away from Camden and set him up in a nice little loft or a small cottage somewhere and he would be cherished and kept safe and only have to have sex with that one person for the rest of his life. But, realistically, Harry knew that bankers and solicitors and insurance salesmen didn’t fall in love with prostitutes.

 

And this man certainly held no affection for Harry. His obsession was of a darker sort; a kind of burning, unholy need that gleamed in his eyes. Harry pressed his back against the brick wall behind him and – not for the first time – he considered turning the man away, should he finally decide to make an offer. But he needed the money and he knew it, just as he knew that the suit the man wore was of the finest quality. If this man was willing to pay, Harry was willing to sell. So instead of slipping into the alley and running away as he longed to do, he steeled himself and smiled warmly, stepping out onto the sidewalk. “Hello, sir.” He said in a breathy voice that he knew men loved. “It’s been a while…over a week. I thought perhaps you’d forgotten about me.”

 

The cold metal snakehead that topped the man’s cane came up under his chin, tilting his face up into the light from a streetlamp. Harry blinked vibrant green eyes that were lined with dark smudges of eyeliner that emphasized the wide, almond shape of them. His eyelids were coated in dark grey eye shadow that made the green of his eyes stand out even more and his full, cherry-red lips had a shiny coat of gloss that made them look slick and wet and inviting. He’d been told more than once that his mouth looked “fuckable” which, in his profession, was a compliment of the highest order. His pert nose, high cheekbones, and delicate chin just added to the gamine, innocent appearance he worked so hard to emphasize.

 

The man’s sharp gaze moved over his body. Despite the cold and the snow, he wasn’t wearing much. He was wearing a belly-bearing mock-turtleneck tee-shirt made of black stretch-cotton that clung to his narrow shoulders and slender chest, stopping just below his ribcage. A small silver barbell pierced his navel, with a single tear-drop shaped emerald dangling from it – it had been a gift from one of his clients and he wore it often, knowing there might come a day he’d need to sell it. His firm, young ass was encased in tight, shiny, black, PVC shorts that just barely covered it. A white belt was slung low on his slender hips, not serving any practical purpose except to draw people’s eyes downwards. He had on thigh-high, triple-buckle, lace-up, platform boots with 5 ¾” heels in black, stretch patent PVC. They encased his long, toned legs like a second skin and brought his diminutive height up to the point where he was _almost-but-not-quite_ eye-level with the man surveying him. The entire look was topped off with a heavy black trench coat that hung open to reveal the enticing youth’s body.

 

Harry held his breath, not sure why this man struck such fear in his heart. “Tell me, Harry.” The man purred in his cool, haughty voice. “What is your full name?”

 

“What?” Harry asked, jerking backwards and stumbling a little on the ice-slicked, snow-covered sidewalk because that question wasn’t what he was expecting. But the man merely raised an eyebrow and waited and so Harry swallowed hard and said shakily. “Harry. The only name I have is Harry. No last name, no middle name. Just Harry.”

 

Last names, Harry had realized early-on, were for _real_ _people_. And prostitutes like Harry didn’t qualify as _real people_ ; they were just objects. Harry was nothing but a pretty face, a wet mouth, and a tight ass. Hell, being as effeminate as he was, he wasn’t even considered a _cock_ to most of his clients, which was a bit of a relief and a bit offensive all at the same time. But no one had ever asked his last name. Why would they? It wasn’t as though it mattered. Hell, even his first name only mattered if they wanted something to scream out while fucking him.

 

“Surely you had a last name once, Harry.” The blonde man drawled, gesturing idly with his cane. “After all, everyone has a last name at some point.”

 

Immediately defensive, Harry spat. “What’s it to you if I’ve got one or not? What are you, some kind of fucking cop?” He crossed his arms defiantly and glared at the man. “If you’re buying, then buy. Otherwise, kindly piss off.”

 

Not-Lucius pulled a small roll of bills from his pocket and held it out to Harry, a sneer gracing his aristocratic lips. Harry swallowed hard, once again afraid of what the man might want from him, but he snatched the money and began counting. His eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat; with this much money, he could catch up on the two months’ rent he owed his landlord, pay another two months on the spot, _and_ have money left over for food and some things for his wardrobe. He might even be able to take a few days off and just _sleep_. Curling his fingers tightly around the money, Harry knew he’d do whatever the man wanted in exchange for it.

 

Squashing his fear, Harry tucked the money into a pocket and smiled invitingly as he stepped closer, gently stroking his fingers down the man’s chest. In a breathless murmur, Harry asked. “Do you want me to suck you, sir, or would you rather fuck me?” Based on the amount of money he was being offered, Harry suspected the latter…possibly with a healthy dose of pain thrown in for good measure. So he gave the man a sultry look from under inky black lashes and added huskily. “You can use me for your pleasure…tie me up, beat me, split me open with your cock…spank me until I’m begging you to stop and then fuck my tight arse until I’m too sore to move.” Harry spoke the words without even a trace of embarrassment; any modesty or shyness he’d once had was long gone.

 

He watched the man’s silver eyes darken to gunmetal grey and knew that his suggestions appealed to him; he wanted to do everything Harry had just said. And though the prospect of allowing this man – who oozed power and danger and death – to do whatever he wanted to him terrified Harry, there was no way for him to walk away from the kind of money he was being offered.

 

But the man before him reined in his desire; Harry could see it gleaming, barely-leashed, in those dark eyes. He pushed Harry away from him and when he spoke, his voice was a low, dangerous growl. “You do tempt me, boy. You have no idea how much I wish I could do those things. But what I want in exchange for that money is very simple.”

 

Harry stared at him with wide, expectant eyes. When he didn’t speak, Harry cleared his throat and whispered. “What do you want?”

 

“Your name.” The man purred darkly, smirking. “Nothing more and nothing less, Harry. I simply wish to know your full name.”

 

Harry laughed – a shaky, breathless sound – and with trembling fingers pulled out the cigarette and lighter he’d tucked into his pocket when the-man-from-his-delusions had appeared. He lit it carefully, took a deep drag, and rasped. “You’re very strange, sir.” He blew out a stream of smoke, watching the older man cautiously through the haze of it.

 

“You don’t know the half of it.” Amusement laced that drawling voice and made Harry wary. “But unless you intend to return the money, I’ll have your name.”

 

Another deep drag, a pause, a stream of smoke…then, in a voice that was flat and dead, Harry spoke his full name for the first time in a very, _very_ long time. “Harry James Potter.” He took another drag, flicked ash off his cigarette, blew out more smoke, then added. “Not that I’m complaining or anything, but I don’t think my name is worth the money you gave me.”

 

He swallowed hard, took one last drag off the cigarette, flicked it into the snow-covered street, and sighed; the smoke left his mouth in a wispy puff that he watched with nervous eyes. Then he turned to the man and, though he couldn’t have said why except to blame some vestige of the well-mannered boy he’d once believed himself to be, offered shakily. “Are you certain you don’t want something else? Even just a quick suck in the alley…”

 

The man opened his mouth, then seemed to hesitate. Harry bit his lip – a nervous habit he’d discarded shortly after getting his lip pierced, but which he couldn’t seem to resist doing just then – and said with more bravery then he felt. “I’m very good with my mouth. It…well, it’d be worth more than some name I never use, anyway…” He trailed off, slumping against the streetlamp behind him and flicking the tip of his tongue nervously against the cold ring of silver in the center of his lip, feeling incredibly young all of a sudden. Which he was, of course; he just didn’t often _feel_ young.

 

“Your name…” The man whispered, with a  very strange look on his face. “Is worth more than you seem to realize.” He reached out with one long-fingered, leather-glove-encased hand and brushed the long piece of Harry’s hair back from his forehead.

 

Harry went very still, having a flash of memory from one of his delusions, in which he stood – covered in soot – in the middle of a bookshop while is arch-rival’s father studied his scar. Skin-warmed leather traced the lightning bolt very gently and the man’s soft, cultured drawl slid through him. “Such a strange scar, Mr. Potter.”

 

And something about the way his last name was said lanced through Harry’s brain. He jerked away from the gentle touch and staggered backwards, away from the man and towards the alley. His eyes were wild as he misjudged and ended up backing into one of the buildings instead. “Lucius…” He breathed, his breath coming in wild gasps. “No…no, it can’t be…”

 

A cruel smile twisted those lips and the man moved closer. “Remembered me at last, Mr. Potter?” He said in that low, dangerous purr that made Harry feel so helpless and afraid. “I doubted it was you only because you seemed not to know me. Though I was, of course, surprised to see you like _this_.”

 

Harry shook his head frantically. “No…” He whispered, feeling his throat close with fear and growing lightheaded from his rapid breathing. “You’re not real!” He insisted, his voice high and thread and barely-there. “You’re _not real!”_

 

Lucius Malfoy seemed surprised by this statement, then he threw back his head and laughed; the sound was cold and dark and cruel in a way Harry had never known laughter could be. “Foolish boy!” He snarled, moving closer. “What makes you think I’m not real? Did you not attend school with my son for two years?”

 

“No!” Harry cried loudly. He squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears, refusing to give into his delusional mind now, after so much time spent free of it. “No! There is no magic! There is no Hogwarts! I am not a Wizard!” He was sobbing now and let himself sink down to the cold, snow-covered sidewalk, curling around his knees and burying his face in them, then using his arms to cover his head. “This isn’t real. This isn’t real. _This isn’t real.”_

 

Harry kept chanting it over and over, still breathing erratically, until his head began to swim and everything inside him went fuzzy and soft and strange. Feeling desperate and afraid and very, very lost, Harry looked up. No one was around. He was sitting alone on the sidewalk in the snow, cold and shaking and distraught. There was no Lucius Malfoy, but then there shouldn’t be. After all, he didn’t exist.

 

Harry forced himself to get to his feet, struggling to breathe slower and more-evenly now that the delusion seemed to have passed. He made himself go home and strip off his clothing and makeup and crawl into bed. He told himself to forget about his momentary lapse in sanity; he had shaken himself out of it, after all. He had identified the delusion and escaped it. He was fine. Everything was just fine.

 

Harry fell into a fitful sleep, still telling himself that the delusion was unimportant because it was over. He would have believed it more if it hadn’t been for the unexplainable money he found in his coat pocket the following morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://waymoreforless.com/productimages/delight-3028.jpg - Harry’s boots <3
> 
> ~ Lady S.


	4. Chapter Four

Harry had taken a week to hide in his little two-room (plus the loo) flat. His landlord had been happy to have the money he was owed and to take two months payment in advance; Harry was relieved the money had existed, even if he wasn’t sure where it had come from. His best guess was that during the time he’d been delusional, something real had been going on and he’d earned the money that way. It didn’t make a lot of sense, but he couldn’t come up with a better theory unless he’d somehow mugged someone while he was out of it. Which he really hoped he hadn’t done; he wasn’t a violent or aggressive person. It made him a little uneasy, not knowing for sure, but as long as the police weren’t banging on his door he wasn’t going to worry about it. Better to just put it out of his mind.

 

Wednesday, December 11th, found Harry back on the streets. His outfit was nearly the same as the last time he’d been out, but with a few differences; trench coat, boots, short-shorts in leather this time rather than PVC, and a white-and-silver long-sleeved fishnet shirt. His belly ring was once-again the silver barbell with its dangling emerald. Eyeliner and a shimmering silver eye shadow accented his eyes. Silver glitter sparkled on his cherry-red lips and dusted his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He looked wintery and beautiful in the cold, crisp night air.

 

He lounged carelessly against a building, smoking a cigarette and giving the other prostitutes a wide-berth. They often huddled together in little groups, but Harry tried to stay away from them. He didn’t want to make friends or commiserate on their sad lives. He just wanted to get through the night. A young female prostitute with long blonde hair that seemed too heavy for her slight build and huge blue eyes approached him and he gave her a cool look that he hoped would send her scurrying away. She was new, however, and it didn’t work; Harry could smell innocence from a mile away and this girl still reeked of it. She chewed on her lip nervously, seeming to be digging for courage.

 

“Timid doesn’t sell.” Harry snapped, annoyed with this girl for some reason he couldn’t define. Her skirt was inches too long for their profession, her shoes were sedate and school-girlish, and her top was a simple blue tee-shirt that fit well but not tightly. She had on practically no makeup. It reminded Harry of his first few weeks doing this before he’d really learned what worked best.

 

She jumped back in fright, then said in a whisper. “I just…I wondered if I could bum a fag, that’s all.” She was shaking all over and not from the cold. Harry remembered what it was like, to be so afraid of what you were doing that you just wanted to die; he felt his heart go out to her. He handed her a cigarette and lighter and she murmured quietly. “Thank you.”

 

Harry took the lighter back and then cleared his throat awkwardly. “Look…you need to buy some sexier shoes and clothes. It’ll be a bit tight in the beginning, spending what little you earn, but you’ll get more clients for it.” When she stared at him with wide eyes, he added. “I can fix what you’re wearing now, if you’ll let me.”

 

She glanced down at herself, then raked her eyes over Harry’s form, then nodded slowly. “Thanks. I…my name is Clarissa.” She gave him a cautious smile. “I’m…not really happy about all of this, but there aren’t really a lot of options for me.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes; this was why he didn’t talk to the other prostitutes. “Yeah, there’s not really options for any of us. That’s why we do this.” After a moment, he added grudgingly. “I’m Harry.”

 

He tugged a pocket knife out of one of his coat pockets and used it to carefully cut the girl’s shirt so that it bared most of her belly; when he was done with it, the bottom edge just brushed the bottom of her ribcage. He then knelt carefully and quickly shortened her skirt the same way until it barely covered her ass. When he stood, he pocketed the knife again and pulled out an eye shadow palette and eyeliner, holding it up.

 

“I can put it on you.” He offered, not sure why he wanted to help her so much. She nodded and he did as he’d said, giving her a coat of light blue eye shadow to enhance the blue of her eyes and a soft smudging of eyeliner to flatter the shape. “There. Now all you need to do is get yourself some makeup of your own and better shoes and cut your hair.”

 

“My hair?” Clarissa brought a hand up to her long blonde tresses, frowning. “I thought men liked long hair on a girl…”

 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Look, you’re really pretty in a girl-next-door kind of way, but you’ve got to play up your strengths. You’re built delicate, like me. Big eyes, high cheekbones, narrow chin…and that’s all great, really. It looks good. But the long hair just weighs you down. Cut it short around your face in layers and you’ll look like a pixie. Trust me.”

 

Clarissa nodded and, still sucking gently on her cigarette, drifted away from Harry again. He was grateful; he didn’t like how she made him feel. Protective and worried and like he didn’t quite know what to do. He wanted to help her; to _save_ her. Which he couldn’t do. Not outside his delusions, anyway. He couldn’t even save himself, let alone anyone else. Better for everyone if she just stayed away from him. There was a reason he didn’t want friends, after all.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

 It was a couple days later when Harry saw Clarissa again. Fridays were busy, even when it was Friday the 13th. His outfit was the same as when he’d first met her, except that his leather shorts were a dark green this time instead of black. The shimmering, wintery makeup he wore was something he often favored during the winter months and the Slytherin color-scheme really did flatter his looks. Clarissa had cut her hair, like he’d told her to. It fell in short layers to her chin, making her eyes look even bigger. She had on a purple corset-top and the black skirt he’d shortened for her. Her shoes were still the childish-looking Mary Jane’s, but it was an improvement. Her eye shadow was a pale lilac color and she had shimmery pink lipstick coating her lips. The other prostitutes (male and female alike) were further down the street; they knew Harry didn’t like company and that he often got snarly. Clarissa didn’t seem to care.

 

“I cut my hair.” That was how she greeted him. Not knowing what to say, Harry just nodded. She chewed nervously on the corner of her lip, then said quietly. “Can I ask you something, Harry?”

 

Harry sighed and said coldly. “Don’t bite your lip unless it’s deliberate. Nervous habits like that aren’t sexy.” Her eyes widened and she took a frightened step back. Harry growled, feeling annoyed and frustrated and unsure of himself. “Look, Clarissa, I don’t do the whole ‘people’ thing real well, okay? It’s nothing personal.”

 

“Oh.” Clarissa swallowed hard, then moved forward again. “It’s just…no one else has really been helpful like you were. And I…I just thought…”

 

Harry sighed again when she trailed off. “Yeah, cause you’re hanging out with the female-prozzies. You’re competition to them, so they won’t help you.” Harry gave her a tired smile. “The gents looking to fuck me aren’t typically interested in a bird like yourself, so it’s no bother to me if you look your best.” She nodded, her eyes huge in her gamine face, and he added gruffly. “You can ask whatever you like, but I can’t promise I’ll answer.”

 

“It’s just…how do you keep from…I mean, don’t you ever…” Clarissa looked confused, then she sighed miserably. “I don’t even know what I’m trying to say. Never mind.”

 

“It’s okay.” Because Harry knew what she meant. How could he not? “There are days where I think about just ending it all. Because dying has to be better than this, right?” He gave a self-deprecating laugh, saw the despair in her eyes, and continued in a soft, serious voice. “One day I’ll do it, I’m sure, because I think there’s only so long a person can handle this. But it won’t be today or tomorrow or even anytime soon because I’m just too fucking stubborn. It’s all about how much you can take, I think.” Clarissa was nodding, solemn and understanding, and Harry felt a strange sort of connection. This girl understood him, at least as much as anyone could.

 

Suddenly Harry felt eyes on him and he turned. Standing nearby, watching him and Clarissa, was one of the most gorgeous men Harry had ever seen. He didn’t look much older than Harry himself; he was in his early-twenties, perhaps. He had thick, dark hair that was slightly-longer than was stylish and was just tousled enough to look boyishly charming without appearing untidy. He had beautiful hazel eyes that shifted from golden to green and back again even as he watched Harry; he had to wonder at the man’s mercurial moods that caused the rapid color change. He was dressed in black slacks, an emerald-green button-up shirt, and a slim black-and-silver striped tie. The outfit was topped by an open black great coat that made him look very dashing. He was tall and lean and muscled without being at all bulky. His face would have been angelic if not for the dark aura of power he seemed to radiate. And his incredibly intense stare was all for Harry.

 

“I don’t like him.” Clarissa whispered, her eyes shifting restlessly from the man to Harry and back. “I don’t like him at all. He gives me the creeps.”

 

Harry gave her a bemused smile. “He’s here to pick up a prostitute, Clarissa. _Of course_ he gives off a creepy vibe.” He rolled his eyes at her and added. “I’ll be fine. I’ve been doing this for a while.”

 

Then he strolled over to the man, a coy smile curving his lips. He stopped barely a foot away from the man and spoke in his soft, breathy voice. “Hey there. See something you like?”

 

The man’s hand came up as quick as lightning, gripping Harry’s chin and forcing his head back. He really was tall; at least a head taller than Harry, though his boots helped even the difference out. “I haven’t decided yet.” The man’s voice was colder then Harry would have thought possible. He studied Harry intensely, then asked. “What is your name?”

 

Harry lowered his eyelashes and said quietly. “Harry.” Then he peeked up at the man and added. “I can show you more, if you like…” He flicked his tongue out to moisten his bottom lip, ignoring the odd taste of the glitter adorning it. He was used to it by now. The man’s eyes narrowed on his tongue. “What?” He asked, suddenly self-conscious.

 

“Your tongue…” The man looked intrigued. “You have metal through it, just as you do through your ear and lip…”

 

Harry quirked an eyebrow, then stuck his tongue out for a moment to show off the silver ball. “Well, yeah, I have it pierced. My eyebrow and navel, too. The tongue one, though…” Harry smirked and purred. “Well, that feels fucking amazing when I suck someone off.”

 

The man tensed, giving Harry a strange look. He was still tightly holding Harry’s chin and he used his other hand to push back the piece of Harry’s hair that fell into his face. He studied Harry for a moment longer, then growled. “You truly sell yourself to strange men?”

 

Harry frowned, unsure why he suddenly felt judged. “Yeah.” He bit out, struggling to rein in his anger. “I don’t have a lot of options, you know, and I need to eat.”

 

“Tell me, Harry…” The man tipped his head to the side, releasing Harry’s chin and stepping back. “Do you believe in magic?”

 

“What?” Harry tensed for a moment, then gave the man a cold look. “No, I don’t. Magic is for babies and fools and fairytales. I live in the _real_ world, mate. Have a nice night.” Then he turned and began moving back towards Clarissa, who was watching him with worried eyes.

 

Suddenly her eyes widened and Harry tensed for a split-second before instinctively dropping to the icy ground and rolling. He came up into a crouch, his teeth bared in a snarl, between the stranger and Clarissa with his back to the girl. The man was frozen in the act of reaching for Harry. His surprised look turned to one of calculating speculation almost instantly. Harry stayed crouched for a moment longer, then rose to his feet and backed up until he felt Clarissa touch his shoulder.

 

“Are you okay?” She whispered and he could hear the fear in her voice; it twisted something inside him and made him think of Hermione Granger – the best friend he’d had once-upon-a-never.

 

“I’m fine.” Harry assured her, keeping his eyes on the man. Very coolly, he intoned. “Watch it with the grabbing. You want to touch, you pay first.”

 

The man considered this for a long moment, then said softly. “My name is Tom Riddle, Harry. And I should like to…acquire you.”

 

Clarissa made a funny little noise and Harry shushed her soothingly. “That’s an odd way of putting it, Mr. Riddle.” Harry said to the man, eyeing him distrustfully. He took a tentative step closer to the man. “What service would you like to purchase?”

 

“Everything.” The man purred in a dark voice that seemed to wrap around Harry and choke him. He struggled to take a deep breath and moved another step closer.

 

“ _Everything_ is expensive.” He warned, doing his best to shake off the feeling of terror that was clawing at his insides for no good reason. “Are you willing to pay?” Harry shivered in the cold air as, for the briefest of moments, Riddle’s eyes seemed to flash a deep, violent crimson. _‘A trick of the light.’_ He told himself sternly. _‘Nothing more.’_

 

Tom simply smirked and held out his hand to Harry. “Come, Harry. We’ll work out the cost together.” The dark glee in his eyes made Harry’s stomach twist, but he moved forward slowly; he needed the money and couldn’t afford to be too picky about his clients; the winter months were notoriously lean.

 

Just as Harry laid his fingertips against Riddle’s palm, he felt fingers grasp the back of his coat; Clarissa, he assumed. He turned his head as long, slender fingers closed around his own and said. “Clarissa, don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

 

Her blue eyes were wide with concern and she opened her mouth to reply, her fingers still locked around the fabric of his coat, just at the small of his back. But before she could speak, there was a strange sensation. The sound of breaking glass, the feel of his ears popping, blackness swirling before his eyes, and the sensation of being compressed as though through a very small tube combined to nearly overwhelm Harry. He heard Clarissa scream and the sound ripped through him. She sounded utterly terrified.

 

Suddenly he was on the ground, Clarissa’s weight pressing down on his back. The floor beneath him was stone; hard and cool and a touch damp. Clarissa was shaking and sobbing. He quickly shifted from under her, then pulled her into his arms. “Shhhh…” He soothed, rocking her. He wondered what had happened; how they had come to be where ever they were. Had they been hit with something? Drugged somehow or tasered?  “Clarissa, hush…” He whispered.

 

Still trembling, she nonetheless pulled herself together quickly; it was something you learned early in their profession and she was pretty good at it. They looked around together. The man who had somehow taken them was standing there still, staring down at them in amusement. The room was stone and dark, lit only dimly by torches that hung in brackets on the walls. There was the faint sound of water dripping from somewhere nearby, echoing and hollow. And clasped in the man’s hand was something Harry had never expected to see.

 

Clarissa clung tightly to Harry’s hand, pressing close to his side. She was shivering. Harry swallowed hard, his eyes locked on the man. “Take her back.” He whispered, terrified but unable to stay silent. “If…if this is really happening and I’m not delusional then…then take her back. You want me, not her.”

 

“And I didn’t intend to take her, either.” Tom said coldly, his sensual mouth curving into a smile that made Harry shiver. Beside him, Clarissa whimpered softly. “Tell me, Harry…what is to stop me from killing the little tag-along right now?”

 

Harry tensed and Clarissa made a terrified sound in the back of her throat, like a cornered animal. “She didn’t know you were going to Apparate, did she?” He snapped, feeling hot and cold at once. “She’s just an innocent Muggle. Let her go!” He shouted the last sentence, pushing himself up onto his knees and glaring hotly.

 

“Ah, temper-temper, Mr. Potter.” Came the drawling aristocratic voice of Lucius Malfoy from behind the man called Tom Riddle. He stepped into the torchlight, wearing dark blue robes and idly fingering the snake-headed cane that Harry knew housed his wand. “You’re hardly in any position to make demands or win a fight.”

 

Harry looked away from Lucius and locked his eyes on the pale, slim, knotted wand Tom was holding. He dug deep for the courage he’d been so sure was a product of his broken mind and said. “Of course not. I no longer have a wand. And I can hardly duel without one.” He stood and crossed his arms defiantly over his chest, stepping between the two Wizards and Clarissa. “But I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe. I won’t let you hurt her. She’s done nothing to you.”

 

“Harry…” Clarissa’s fingers were digging into his coat again; she’d stood behind him and was now pressing close to his back. “Harry, who are these men? What do they want?”

 

“It’s interesting, Harry.” Tom purred darkly. “To see you defend such a pathetic scrap of Muggle waste with such fierce integrity, considering you are nothing but a common whore.”

 

“Whore or not, I’ve got more integrity then you if you’d kill a defenseless girl for no reason!” Harry spat back. And this time he was sure it wasn’t a trick of the light when the man’s eyes flashed red. He had only heard of one person with red eyes during his two years at Hogwarts and he swallowed hard. “You’re pathetic, just like you were when you tried to kill me as a baby. I’d much rather be a whore than be a monster like _you!”_

“Harry, stop!” Clarissa cried out, clinging tighter to his coat. “Stop antagonizing them, please!” She stepped up beside Harry, her blue eyes full of tears. “Please…please, just let us go. We won’t tell anyone you took us, we swear. Just let us go.”

 

Tom chuckled, then leveled his wand at her. Her eyes were confused as she stared at the piece of wood he was aiming at her. “Foolish Muggle.” Tom purred.

 

Harry stepped in front of her quickly. Ignoring Lucius’s snide voice telling him to move, Harry swallowed hard and said the only thing he could think of. After all, for over a year he’d had only one thing of any value. It was the only thing he had to offer; the only bargaining chip he had. He took a deep breath to steel himself, squeezed his eyes shut, and whispered.

 

“Don’t hurt her and I’ll do whatever you want. _Anything_.” The room fell silent and Harry opened his eyes to see Tom studying him with that same look of considering speculation as earlier. He flicked his tongue out to wet his lips and, remembering Tom’s interest in the piercing, he offered. “I’ll…I’ll show you how good my tongue piercing can feel.”

 

Tom’s eyes widened for an instant, then narrowed. He raised the wand again, pointing it deliberately at Harry’s chest. Then he opened his mouth and spoke two words that made Harry go cold with fear.

 

“Lucius…leave.”


	5. Chapter Five

“My lord…” Lucius began to protest, stopping instantly when Tom turned red eyes on him. He bowed hastily. “Yes, my lord.” He disappeared into the shadows and his footsteps sounded on stairs before a heavy door opened and closed somewhere in the darkness above.

 

Harry shivered when those red eyes turned on him, fading back to a heated golden-green. “Now, Harry, tell me. What will you give and what do you want?”

 

Harry swallowed hard and stepped closer to Tom, closing some of the distance between them. “I’ll suck you off.” He said and his voice came out breathy and seductive with hardly any effort, which was a relief because he really wanted to just curl into a ball and hide. “And I want you to send Clarissa back.”

 

“Ah, but she’s seen too much, my pet.” Tom replied, sounding almost regretful. He reached out and touched Harry’s cheek almost tenderly. “I cannot send her back.”

 

“Then…then let her stay with me, unharmed.” Harry pleaded. “Please. Unless you’re planning to kill me, which seems unlikely since you could have just done that in the alley instead of bringing me here, so if you’re going to keep me just…just let me keep her with me. Please.”

 

Tom turned to study Clarissa. She shrank down into herself as he looked at her, trembling. Finally he hissed in annoyance and nodded to Harry. “Fine. You may keep the chit as a personal servant. She will be your responsibility. Keep her out of trouble and away from my Death Eaters.”

 

Harry nodded and Tom summoned a house elf, ordering it to take Clarissa to _‘Master Potter’s room’_. As soon as the elf had disappeared with a still-terrified and very confused Clarissa, Tom had turned back to Harry. “Now then, Harry. Your payment.”

 

Harry nodded, then glanced around. “Here?” He asked softly. “Or do you want to go someplace more comfortable?”

 

A hand on his arm, the uncomfortable feeling of Apparation, and they were in what was clearly Tom’s bedroom. Silver and green and black, dominated by the largest four-poster bed Harry had ever seen; the room was quite intimidating. Nearly as intimidating as the man he was now faced with. But Harry swallowed down the bile rising in his throat and squashed the nervous flutters in his stomach because this was what he _did_. He knew how to please a man; he knew how to make a man come fast or keep him balanced on the edge for forever. He knew how to do things with his tongue that he was pretty sure were illegal in some places. He had reduced men to incoherent shuddering messes with his mouth alone. He could do this.

 

Harry swallowed hard once more as Tom waved his wand and his clothing vanished. He truly was gorgeous, which was something Harry was grateful for. It made what he was doing less horrifying, if not actually pleasant. Even Tom’s cock was not unattractive; Harry (who was, after all, an expert at such things) judged it to be about 8 inches long and about 2 inches thick. A very nice size, all things considered. Harry shifted slightly so he was standing directly  in front of Tom, then dropped smoothly to his knees. He flicked his tongue out to moisten his lips, peeking up at Tom from beneath the hair that hid part of his face.

 

One hand rose and curled around the middle of Tom’s cock and the man’s breathing deepened. Harry stroked downwards slightly, drawing the foreskin back and revealing the shiny, pink head. A single drop of fluid was beaded on the tip. Harry kept his eyes locked on Tom’s as he dragged the flat of his tongue – piercing and all – over the head of the older man’s cock, gathering the liquid up. Harry was more than a little surprised at the taste; it was vaguely salty but not at all bitter. In fact, it was nearly sweet and was actually quite pleasant. Harry  slid his hand down to the base of Tom’s cock to hold it steady, then carefully swirled his tongue around the head.

 

He almost smiled at the soft moan Tom let out as the cool metal of his tongue stud circled the hot flesh. It was strange, but in a way Harry was proud of his ability to wring such sounds from people. He circled the head with his tongue again, then pursed his lips and pressed them to Tom’s cock in a soft kiss. He let his eyes flutter shut as he slowly parted his lips and let the first inch slip into his mouth. He made a small hum of approval as he slid his tongue across the flesh between his lips and gathered more of the oddly-sweet essence of Tom’s desire. The sound’s vibration – or perhaps Harry’s tongue stud – caused Tom to shiver and thrust slightly.

 

Harry obligingly opened his mouth wider and let Tom thrust his cock in further. Tom growled and Harry felt a hand in his hair. Normally this was something Harry hated; having someone touch his hair made his skin crawl in a way little else could anymore. But Tom’s hands – though slightly rough as they fisted in his green and white hair – made Harry shiver. Tom gave a slight tug, forcing Harry’s head down further onto his cock, and Harry moaned around the hot flesh filling his mouth. Something about  that tug had gone straight to his own cock; that had never happened before, and he wasn’t sure why exactly it was happening now, but it was lovely and he wanted to feel more.

 

Hoping to encourage Tom to pull his hair again, Harry sucked hard. Tom groaned and gave a sharp thrust, forcing the head of his cock to the back of Harry’s throat. But being used to incredibly uncaring clients, Harry swallowed easily around Tom’s erection. Harry lowered his head further, burying his nose in the dark hair at Tom’s groin as he swallowed down the whole length. As he sucked hard and pulled back for air, Tom made a growling sound. Long, slender fingers tightened in his hair again, pulling harder than before and making Harry’s back arch as it sent a wave of pleasure racing down his spine to make his cock throb. His leather shorts had never felt so tight.

 

 

His head was forced down again and Harry whimpered softly around the cock that rested heavily on his tongue before letting Tom push him down. Harry began to bob his head in slow, steady motions and opened his eyes, looking up at Tom. The man was staring down at him and Harry shuddered as he realized that the eyes watching so intently as Tom’s cock slid in and out of his mouth were red. Tom grinned almost ferally down at him and fisted his hand tightly in Harry’s hair, tugging again. Harry moaned again, his eyes fluttering shut momentarily before he forced them open again.

 

Tom chuckled softly. “Enjoy having your hair pulled, Harry?” He asked and Harry whined around his cock, sucking a little harder to answer yes. “How much do you like it, pet?” Tom purred.

 

Harry sucked harder and moved his free hand to the front to his shorts. He spread his knees apart and pressed the heel of his hand against his cock, rubbing slightly. He bobbed his head a little faster and hollowed his cheeks, letting his newfound lust show in his eyes as he locked gazes with the man he was sucking off. Tom growled again, pulling Harry’s hair once more and thrusting hard.

 

Harry was startled by the rush of salty-sweet fluid that flooded his mouth. Tom had given no sign of being that close to finishing. Harry obligingly swallowed it down, once again surprised by the pleasant taste as well as by how easily it settled in his stomach. He pulled back, using his tongue to clean Tom’s cock of any trace of his release, something he didn’t normally do. But for some reason, he didn’t want to miss out on even a single drop.

 

Tom yanked on Harry’s hair sharply, drawing the boy’s attention and forcing a ragged, breathless moan from him at the same time. Those green eyes – darkened with lust and need – met Tom’s and Harry flicked his tongue over full red lips. Harry’s right hand – the one that had been wrapped around Tom’s cock only a moment earlier – was resting lightly on his own thigh. His left hand was still pressed against the bulge at the front of his green leather shorts.  Tom growled, low in his throat, and hauled Harry to his feet by his hair.

 

Harry stood, trembling and moaning, in front of the only man he’d ever wanted. Tom raked his eyes over the boy, then yanked hard on the dark hair in his hand at the same time he palmed Harry’s cock through the little green shorts. Harry made a desperate, keening sound and his whole body shook as the dual sensations of a hand on his cock and his hair being pulled sent him tumbling over the edge. Tom watched as Harry spilled himself into his shorts, his eyes rolling back in his head and that full, sinful mouth falling open on a strangled sound that was half-sob, half-scream. It was intoxicating.

 

When those green eyes opened a moment later, dazed and glassy with satisfaction, Tom locked eyes with him and growled at the boy. “You are _mine_ , Harry. If anyone else touches you, I’ll kill them. If you touch anyone else, I’ll make you wish for death.”

 

Then he released the boy, turned on his heel, and left the room. Harry swayed in place for a long moment, then his knees gave out and he collapsed to the floor. Once there, Harry did something he hadn’t done since his first week as a prostitute. He wrapped his arms around his legs, buried his face in his knees, and sobbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter that I've managed to write of this particular fic. I do plan to write more, but I don't have a time-frame for it. Comments make my day!
> 
> <3
> 
> ~ Lady S.


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